


Faithful or Fatal

by Nadare



Category: Iron Fist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Character Study, Foreshadowing, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, One Shot, Pre-Season/Series 01, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-05-28 05:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19387855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadare/pseuds/Nadare
Summary: As a coping mechanism, scotch worked great, though the hangover in the morning could be killer. The liquor’s malty bite lingered on his taste buds, a pleasant warmth beginning to form in the pit of Ward's stomach. His mind had yet to be affected, but the night was young, that fact could easily change.





	Faithful or Fatal

_A/N: I love Ward. That is all. :p_

[Written on and off from 6-10-19 to 7-8-19]

\-----------------

**_“Faithful or Fatal”_ **

Ward turned another page in the report, scanning it before moving onto the next. To an outsider, he imagined it looked quite banal, the words buried in legalese. Yet the complexities of the agreement before him were vast. One wrong move could spell disaster for the company.

“You're still here?”

He looked up as Joy entered his office, glancing at his wristwatch in surprise. It was nearly eleven ‘o clock. Though he'd removed his tie and jacket hours ago, certain his hair was mussed in places, Joy still looked picture perfect as if she'd just come in for the day.

She came to stand over Ward's shoulder, glancing at the opened report on his desk. “I thought you'd gone over that already?”

“Just refreshing my memory for the meeting tomorrow.”

Joy smiled as she reached out and patted Ward’s shoulder briefly. “I'm sure you've already memorized it. No need to overexert yourself.”

He sat back in his chair, letting out a sigh. Overworking was, unfortunately, the curse of the corporate world. Not being well-prepared for anything that might go wrong was a sign of bad leadership, and Ward always had an example to set. A certain someone's shoes to fill.

“Dad would be so proud.”

The innocuous statement sent a surge of unease into Ward, stiffening his shoulders. Thinking about his father always did that. Years of conditioning.

“I'll finish up soon,” he promised, flashing Joy a tired smile. “Promise.”

Joy chuckled. “You better.”

In the face of his sister’s worry and affection, Ward considered for one moment coming clean. Sometimes he thought the heavy burden on his shoulders would eventually kill him.

Joy’s forehead suddenly creased in concern. “Is something wrong?”

The words stuck in Ward’s throat. After seeing Harold snap one too many times at seemingly nothing during the last few years and suffering as a result, Ward couldn’t do it. His brotherly instincts were too strong to see Joy in harm’s way.

He sighed heavily. “No, it’s nothing.”

“Okay,” she replied, clearly not convinced, but not wanting to push the issue. “Well, I’m off. Go home sooner than later, okay?” She waved before walking away, quickly disappearing from Ward’s sight.

He had some more papers to go over in preparation for an early meeting tomorrow, but his motivation to do so had died.

Screw it. 

Ward stood up, walking towards the bar cabinet near his desk. He reached for the bottle of scotch resting atop it and poured himself a drink. Ice tumbled around in the bottom of the glass as he went to the wide-open windows that spanned the length of his office.

This high up, the people on the sidewalks below looked tiny, milling about their lives soundlessly on foot and by car. In the city that never slept, the approaching midnight hour was nothing to them.

To Ward, it was another reminder that he had worked too hard and too long. Again. He drained his glass in one go, briefly turning away from the bright city lights, shortly refilling it.

As a coping mechanism, scotch worked great, though the hangover in the morning could be killer. The liquor’s malty bite lingered on his taste buds, a pleasant warmth beginning to form in the pit of Ward's stomach.

His mind had yet to be affected, but the night was young, that fact could easily change.

Joy knew to keep some distance between Rand and her personal life, proving herself the more sensible sibling. Ward, unfortunately, had other obligations that bound him closer to the company than Joy ever would be. The blame laid solely at their father's feet.

As if rebelling from the very thought of the man, Ward entertained the possibility of leaving. Just walking out the door with nothing but the clothes on his back. It was something that had been springing to his mind more and more of late.

Yet, as always, doubt crept in, Ward frowning as he considered the fact that he didn't really know who he was without Rand. Running the company with Joy filled most of his waking hours, leaving little time for hobbies or a love life.

Whether he liked it or not, Ward was a workaholic, and not usually by choice. It was just how things were and there was nothing he could do to change it.

The phone rang, Ward peering at it with dread. This late, he knew it could only be one person: Harold. Though he had a personal assistant in place to see to his every need when it arose, it didn’t stop him from calling on Ward whenever he felt like it. His passive-aggressive way of controlling his son was all-encompassing.

The obnoxious noise stopped, Ward knowing it was only a matter of time before Harold called back. Or texted him, wondering what the hold-up was. He knew from experience that his father's patience was of a limited nature. The longer Ward made him wait, the worse of a mood Harold would be in when he finally clapped eyes on Ward in person.

“Dammit.”

There was no helping it.

Another broken promise to Joy and more lies to conceal. Ward hated the hand life had dealt him.

Knocking back one more drink for courage, Ward then proceeded to put back on his tie and jacket. He ran a hand over his hair, wrangling any stray strands into submission. There, that was as good as it was going to get.

As he passed through his office door, towards the bank of elevators, Ward’s gaze was drawn to the pair of portraits hanging on the wall in front of him. Even here, years after Harold’s supposed death, Ward couldn’t escape.

His fingers tightened at his side, a flash of anger running through Ward, unleashed by the alcohol he’d downed in his office.

Before he knew what he was doing, Ward struck out, his fist hitting Harold’s portrait straight in the nose. The glass shattered around the area, forming thick spider webs throughout the rest of the thick glazing.

His hand ached fiercely as he pulled it back, blood dripping from a couple of knuckles. Still, it had felt good striking out at the source of his distress, even if it was only a momentary balm. Ward smiled at the defaced portrait, chuckling underneath his breath.

He was still laughing as he entered the bathroom. At least until hot water hit Ward's injured hand, dark red liquid chasing itself around the bottom of the sink. The wounds were mostly superficial, comprising of small cuts. A few bandages took care of the matter in short order.

After taking the elevator to the ground floor, Ward entered the car lying in wait for him on the curb. The driver expertly navigated the city streets, his destination fast coming up.

Ward took a moment to make sure his tie was straight. Like Harold always said, a man’s reputation rested on the image he presented to the world, which was especially true in a corporate jungle like Rand.

Ward always had to be on guard, ready for anything. Especially against the monster that ruled almost every aspect of his life. To do otherwise put everything he’d been working for at risk. 

* * *

The next morning, coffee cup in hand, Ward stepped off the elevator, already thinking on what was on the docket for the day. There was never a lack of anything to do at Rand.

His secretary rose from her seat at her desk, a packet of papers in hand. For Ward to sign no doubt.

“Mr. Meachum?”

He looked back at her curiously. “The portrait of your father was damaged last night. Do you know anything about that?”

Ward shook his head, the cuts on his hand pulsing in remembrance for a moment, lying smoothly as he replied, “Nothing at all.” 

The satisfaction he got seeing Harold’s portrait taken down and removed for repair kept Ward’s spirits up all day long.


End file.
